


ever since new york

by 1000_directions



Series: mcu kink bingo [1]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angry Sex, Deaf Clint Barton, M/M, MCU Kink Bingo, Mildly Dubious Consent, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Semi-Public Sex, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-11
Updated: 2019-01-11
Packaged: 2019-10-08 02:32:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17377931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1000_directions/pseuds/1000_directions
Summary: “You’ve been here longer than I have,” Clint says, and he looks into Phil’s eyes. “Is this heaven or hell? I mean, you died. And you’re here. So I guess I’m dead, too, right?”“I did die,” Phil says thoughtfully. “But only a little bit. I got better.”





	ever since new york

**Author's Note:**

> square filled: Clint Barton/Phil Coulson
> 
> please note a possible trigger warning for vomiting

Clint is about ten minutes late to his meet-up, but in his defense, Steve hasn’t told him who he’s meeting or why; plus, there was a cool dog at the outdoor cafe across the way, and Clint had to wait out a whole traffic cycle in order to head over there to pet her and then cross back over to this side of the street. So when Clint walks into the bar to meet his contact, he’s already running late, and his hands smell like dog.

He walks through the door, and his heart gets caught in his throat.

 _You’ll know him when you see him_ , Steve had said, refusing to elaborate.

It’s Phil.

Clint clears his throat, and his fingers itch, like they want the bow he never carries anymore. He wants to fucking shoot something. But that’s not who he is anymore, not quite. So he walks through the nearly empty room and sits at the vacant stool to Phil’s right.

“Surprise,” Phil says with an awkward shrug.

The jukebox in the corner is playing 80s rock, just loud enough to be distracting. He’s going to need to get close to Phil, really study his mouth to read his lips. Jesus. What the fuck, Steve?

“I guess,” Clint says lowly, “this settles a debate I’d been having with myself.”

“What’s that?”

“I’d wondered,” Clint says, swallowing hard. “They say that the people who dusted… I guess most people assume they died. But part of me wondered if it was the opposite. Maybe those people got saved, and the rest of us are the ones who died. Didn’t seem right that I would be spared. And seeing you here….”

“Clint,” Phil says, and just that word, just Phil saying his name is like pulling out the one Jenga block that sends the whole tower crumbling, and he’s buried by a rush of memories that he’s kept precariously locked away in a dark cabinet of his mind.

The last time they’d really talked, they’d fought about something stupid, just a stupid fucking argument because Clint wanted to take a day off and do something easy and private and indulgent, just the two of them. But not Phil, never Phil, he was always all business, all the time. And Clint knew that, and he pushed for it anyway, and they argued about it. And it all would have blown over a few days later, except a few days later, Clint was under the thrall of Loki’s scepter, a passenger in his own traitorous body. He hurt people he loved, and his brain kept screaming, _sorry, sorry, I can’t stop, sorry_ , and honestly, that part wasn’t even so new for him.

But he never got to apologize, and it has been haunting him ever since New York, and it probably always will.

“You’ve been here longer than I have,” Clint says, and he looks into Phil’s eyes. “Is this heaven or hell? I mean, you _died_. And you’re here. So I guess I’m dead, too, right?”

“I did die,” Phil says thoughtfully. “But only a little bit. I got better.”

“The fuck does that mean?” Clint’s heartbeat is so rapid he’s probably going to pass out.

“Took a little time off. I went to Tahiti.” Phil shakes his head. “It’s a magical place,” he says with a wry turn of his lips, like it’s a joke, like that’s supposed to mean anything to Clint.

It doesn’t.

“ _You_ took a little time off,” Clint says flatly, choosing to focus on that and not the fact that Phil is apparently alive and has been this whole time.

“I would have told you if I could have,” Phil says, and there’s a softness to his voice, but it doesn’t feel genuine. It feels like he’s just saying what he thinks Clint wants to hear.

“Do they not sell postcards in Tahiti?” Clint asks. “Feels like that’s a place that would sell a lot of postcards. You know my address.” _You slept in my bed_.

“You didn’t have clearance.”

“I’m an Avenger, and you were my boyfriend.” Fucking hell, where the fucking fuck is the bartender? “How much more clearance did I need?”

“More than that,” Phil says apologetically, and Clint can’t fucking do this. Fucking Steve, he fucking can’t do this.

“I hate you,” Clint means to say.

“I missed you,” Clint says instead. The second the words leave his mouth, he wants them back, he wants them _back_ , but it’s too late. He’s already given them away to Phil, they’re spent and gone.

“I did miss you,” Phil says, and his voice is serious. Business-like. “You know I cared about you, Clint.”

“I used to sit at your grave and talk to you,” Clint says. He feels like he’s going to throw up. “So no offense, but go fuck yourself.”

“Can we at least work together?” Phil asks, and the idea of them being mere colleagues again after all this time and all these unresolved feelings really does make Clint sick.

He bolts. He finds the men’s room and crumples to his knees, heaving into the toilet bowl. His eyes water from the effort, from the emotional release of all the poison and bile he’s been carrying around inside of him for years.

Clint hears footsteps; Phil must have followed him.

“Go away,” Clint says tiredly.

“I did love you once,” Phil says quietly, like anyone even fucking asked, and Clint squeezes his eyes shut and wishes for a loud jukebox to drown out the words. He feels Phil come up right behind him, he feels the closeness of his body as he crouches down and presses a fleeting kiss to Clint’s right shoulder.

“I hope that made you feel better,” Clint says bitterly. “You’re such a decent, stand-up guy. I hope you feel real good about yourself for apologizing.”

“I don’t,” Phil says, and then Clint hears the sound of his footsteps retreating, the swish and the slap of the door swinging open and then closing.

And then the sound of nothing. Clint tucks his face into his hands and hears the loud, echoing nothingness of being alone, and he tries and he tries and he tries to catch his breath. And when he finally does, he stands up, and he walks over to the sinks, and he rinses out the bile from his mouth. He studies himself in the mirror, and when exactly did he get so old? He squints at his reflection, tries to picture how he was before, wisecracking and carefree and younger and _happy_.

But he was never really carefree, and maybe he was never really happy. So much of his personality was a calculated attempt to pass for okay, for normal. And now he doesn’t give a shit anymore, and he’s ugly on the inside, ugly on the outside, rotten and ruined all the way through. _So fuck it_ , he thinks, staring down his own reflection. It’s not like he can make shit any worse than it already is.

He stomps out of the bathroom, assuming Phil will still be there, and he is. He’s leaning against the bar with his arms crossed, and he eyes Clint curiously as he approaches.

“You’re not forgiven,” Clint says before covering Phil’s mouth with his own, angry and desperate. Phil’s hands go to Clint’s shoulders, but he catches him by the wrists, holding Phil in such a way that he can’t touch any part of him as he licks into Phil’s mouth, frustrated and horny and confused.

“Clint,” Phil mumbles against his mouth, and Clint jerks backwards and glares at him.

“Is the next word out of your mouth going to be ‘stop’?” Clint asks, and Phil shakes his head. “Then shut the fuck up. Actually….” He reaches behind his ears and switches off his aids. “Knock yourself out, but I’m not listening.”

Phil closes the distance between them this time, his forearms limp in Clint’s grasp as he leans up and brushes his lips to Clint’s, gentle, too gentle at first. But Phil’s mouth becomes more demanding, greedy and rough and sloppy against Clint’s lips, and Clint growls when Phil uses his teeth, but he doesn’t try to stop him, and Phil doesn’t stop.

Clint can’t remember the last time he got off with someone else. It’s been the goddamn apocalypse out there, he’s been busy, and he mostly keeps to himself anyway. Tomorrow, everything will probably go to shit again. Hell, it’s probably all going to shit before he even comes. But for now, there’s this, and he’s going to take what he can get.

Phil is talking, he hears the vibrations against his sensitive, bruised lips, but Clint doesn’t care. He pulls back from the kiss and looks at the floor, the ceiling, the line of stools, anywhere but Phil. And then he hops up onto the bar, leaning back to lounge on his elbows, and he tries to inhabit a person he used to be, someone who knew how to do this.

“If you missed me so much,” he says with an assuredness he does not feel, “why don’t you make it up to me?”

He looks into Phil’s eyes then, and Phil looks back, nodding at him. He seems serious at first, but there’s that look in his eyes, that mischievous glint that Clint used to love. He doesn’t know how he feels about it now. He’s so mad, and he feels so betrayed, and his dick is suffocating in his pants, and it’s all too much.

But then Phil puts his hands on Clint’s knees, pushing his legs apart so he can move between them, and then he’s unzipping Clint’s pants and reaching for his cock, and it’s been so fucking long since he had someone else’s hand on him that just that simple touch has him sucking in air between his teeth. And he lets his head fall back, and he looks at the ceiling as Phil begins to suck him off.

And he tries and he tries not to forgive Phil. He tenses his whole body, tries to center himself around the feeling of betrayal. But then Phil moves his tongue just the right way against the head of his cock, the way he always used to, the way he remembers he used to love, and something inside Clint relaxes, releases.

And when he comes, it’s the way he always did, grateful and wild and happy. It’s just a blip, but in between one inhale and the next exhale, just for that one moment, Clint feels weirdly, impermanently, unmistakably happy.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr post](http://1000-directions.tumblr.com/post/181912998129/mcu-kink-bingo-clint-bartonphil-coulson)


End file.
